


In the Lonely Hour (I Need You)

by waywardrenegade



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Infidelity, M/M, Marriage Proposal, jared is always the voice of wisdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:44:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrenegade/pseuds/waywardrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surrounded by so many strangers, Hank’s feeling the distance between he and Marc much more tangibly. Sochi is 8636 kilometres away from Thunder Bay. 8636 kilometres from the one person Hank wants to be pressed against most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Lonely Hour (I Need You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kindofdanceit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindofdanceit/gifts).



> This was a birthday present for my favorite, kindofdanceit. Shout out to McClellan95 for working this out with me. You two are awesome. :))
> 
> Title stolen from Sam Smith because the boy's fantastic and all his songs make me want to write sad and/or sappy fic.
> 
> As always, con crit/comments/suggestions welcome!

There’s a fine dusting of snow falling, flakes clinging desperately to Hank’s Team Sweden jacket. His exhales are coming out in little puffs of vapor, seeming to crystallize right in front of him. The night air carries the unforgiving cold that the day can only dream about, while the scenery of the surrounding mountains is much like a Dr. Zhivago backdrop.

Realistically, Hank knows that the temperature in Sochi isn’t much different than in New York, but it feels far chillier, lonelier here despite the festivities and crowds. Surrounded by so many strangers, Hank’s feeling the distance between he and Marc much more tangibly. Sochi is 8636 kilometres away from Thunder Bay. 8636 kilometres from the one person Hank wants to be pressed against most.

Hank’s so lost in his own head, completely immersed in missing Marc and his stupid ginger hair, that the rough grip on his forearm startles him. He’s not expecting to meet Evgeni Malkin’s dark gaze as he says something in gruff Russian, so the deer in the headlights look he knows is plastered to his face is genuine.

He’s been in the NHL long enough now to have absorbed bits and pieces of various languages, so he relates, albeit in broken Russian, that he can’t speak Malkin’s native tongue, sorry. He must not have butchered it too badly because Geno’s eyes adopt a teasing glint as he switches to English that still falters slightly.

“Why you out by yourself?” he asks Hank lowly, hand still clamped onto Hank’s arm a bit too tightly to be comfortable. As pathetic as he knows it is, Hank still finds himself subconsciously leaning into the touch anyway.

“Can’t sleep tonight, haven’t really been able to since I got here. You?” Hank replies, still pushing into Geno’s grasp faux-casually, like he’s not starved for physical contact.

Geno doesn’t meet his questioning eyes, choosing instead to stare off in the direction of the Olympic village as he responds, “Lonely. Many people but still lonely. Want someone in bed with me.” If it were anyone else, it would probably come off a bit pervy and even uncomfortable, but when Geno says it, it just sounds like an honest confession.

Hank knows what that feels like, knows his involuntary gasp of recognition in the face of a kindred spirit translates better than his words ever could. Maybe that goes to explain why he slides his hand down and tangles his fingers around Geno’s, squeezing them reassuringly.

“You want coffee? Know place open late,” Geno asks, not moving to pull his hand away. His wide palm rests firmly against Hank’s, anchoring Hank when he didn’t even realize how adrift he was.

When Hank nods and smiles up at him, Geno’s face clouds with some unnamed emotion as he finally reclaims his hand and tucks it back in his jacket pocket. “Not okay here. Maybe someday.” He sounds wistful and pained.

Their boots fall into a heavy unison of footfalls on crunchy snow that almost, but not quite, drown out Hank’s, “I sincerely hope that happens.”

Geno insists on paying for Hank’s black coffee, “You guest here” he explains, so Hank relents and finds them a secluded corner table near the massive stone fireplace sunk into the adjacent wall.

Geno sets one drink in front of Hank, pausing only to brush his fingertips along the back of Hank’s neck, before he sits down and stretches his long legs out in front of him. Hank tries, and fails he’s sure, not to show how pleased he is with the situation, but these days he can barely fool himself let alone another person.

As they drink their coffee, wrapped in the warmth pouring forth from the fire, they talk; Hank and Geno get to know each other more intimately than merely the Ranger and the Penguin. After a while, Hank inquires about the media’s portrayal of Geno’s relationship with Crosby, to which Geno adamantly protests, “Sid friend. No more” before asking Hank if he has someone in his life.

Hank severely wants to be honest. He feels that 2 am in a foreign land is precisely the time for openness, but he also misses Marc in a way that’s starting to eat a hole in the pit of his stomach, the pain not quite having ebbed to that of a phantom limb yet. He doesn’t resent Marc for choosing to stay home with his family to help finalize plans for Jared’s wedding, but he selfishly wishes he had asked one more time just in case Marc would’ve changed his mind.

Instead of being the noble boyfriend and saying, “I do, actually. His name is Marc, and he makes waffles in the morning with too much syrup. He always smells of grass like maybe his childhood on his family’s sod farm forever changed him, and once he tried to impress my mother by learning Swedish and ended up telling her how “sexy” he found her cooking," Hank finds himself shaking his head and sliding his hand surreptitiously up Geno’s thigh. When Geno suggests they leave soon, it sounds like the best plan Hank’s ever heard.

Geno sneaks him into his dorm room in the Team Russia section of the village, reassures him that no one will see them and won’t say anything they do. He continues to reassure Hank as he strips off their clothes, too methodical to really turn Hank on, but he’s content to follow along for a while if it means Geno will keep touching him.

When Geno kisses him, tasting of his hazelnut latte and something indescribable, Hank is hit with the reality of what he’s about to do. It brings him sharply back to a few months ago when Marc had laid him down on their bed, blindfolded and completely trusting, and hand-fed him strawberries smothered in Nutella. The rich hazelnut on Geno's lips makes him remember that night and how wonderful it'd been with Marc, how stupid he'd have to be to jeopardize that.

He really thinks this through until he’s sinking to the floor and shaking with sobs he’s just barely managing to hold back. Geno, for his part, holds it together pretty well and crouches down next to him to pull Hank against his chest.

“Is alright? What wrong, Hank?” he mumbles into Hank’s disheveled hair, running his hand up and down Hank’s side in an attempt to placate. It should put Hank at ease, calm his frayed nerves, and let him be okay with Geno taking some of his loneliness into himself, but instead it feels like pinpricks to his flesh, making him feel guilty and despicable. Making Hank feel like the piece of shit he knows he can be sometimes.

“No, not alright. I...I need to go. Now. I’m sorry, really I am. I just can’t. Can’t. Marc. Sorry, so sorry,” Hank babbles incessantly as he heaves himself off the industrial grade carpet of a temporary room in a temporary dorm in a temporary village in a country that feels even more desolate than it did a few hours ago.

Geno looks a little lost, not quite sure what has just happened, when Hank lets himself out the front door with one last glance over his shoulder at him, but Hank’s not going to turn back. He can’t.

He wanders the village until the sun breaks through the filmy clouds to greet the still sleeping people below. He keeps walking until the chill in the air feels like it has seeped so far into his bones that they’re brittle enough that just one touch from another hand that doesn’t belong to Marc will shatter them in the way that Hank’s heart slowly is.

Mats finds him early that afternoon, still forlorn and looking as if he’d rather be anywhere but there because in reality, he’d give almost anything to be in Thunder Bay. He pushes, prods, and pries until Hank gives him the faintest clue as to what the hell’s happened.

When Hank can finally bring his gaze from the dirty slush to see how harshly Mats is judging him, he’s surprised to find a bitter grin a scant few centimeters from his face.

“You, for all that everyone says you’re smart and shit, are a giant dumbass. Call Marc. Call him right now. And don’t even say that overseas charges are too expensive or that timezones matter,” Mats demands as he pokes Hank in the chest with his pointy hobbit fingers.

When he doesn’t make a move to pull his phone from where its been sucked into the ridiculously deep pocket of his jacket, Mats thrusts his own at Hank and threatens, “Now, Henke, or I will hurt you.” Hank has no doubt he will too.

Mats makes himself scarce as Hank paces a track in what’s left of the untouched snow as the phone rings once, twice, three times before Marc picks up on the last ring. Hank’s so anxious and can’t ignore the rush of blood pounding in his ears so he misses Marc’s words.

“Marc, babe, I’m so happy you answered,” Hank tries to say convincingly but knows he can’t quite carry it off.

There’s a rustling on Marc’s end and an impatient woof in the background before he speaks again, “Everything okay? It’s 3:42 in the morning here, Hank.” Hank wants to feel bad for waking him and what sounds like the Staal’s black lab, but he needs to do this, so he doesn’t feel bad enough to offer to call back later.

“Uh, not really, no…” he starts, unsure exactly what to say next before deciding it might be better to say it fast and not draw it out. “I cheated. I mean, not really, but I was going to, Marc. And I’m sorry, so fucking sorry. I just need you to know that.” It comes out in a garbled rush of panicky syllables, and Hank can’t breathe.

The line goes dead with a click that might as well be a gun pressed to Hank’s gut as the trigger’s pulled, leaving him to bleed out slowly and alone.

Hank goes to his room, pulls the contraband bottle of Swedish vodka from his bag, and downs a quarter of the bottle before the first tears stain his cheeks. He can’t believe he fucked up the best thing he’s ever had, that he nearly cheated on _Marc_. With those thoughts pinging around his brain like racquetballs, he knocks back a little more before collapsing on the mattress and spiraling into a fitful sleep.

The next few days go by in a blur, the games aren’t memorable until the gold medal game, the one where Hank knuckles the fuck down and gets in the headspace to win this for Sweden, the one thing he can still control in his life.

In a whirlwind game, he plays his heart out, leaving all the bitterness and self-hatred he’s been wallowing in momentarily on the ice, and in return for his efforts, he gets a silver medal draped over his neck in a grandiose medal ceremony.

Finally it’s the closing of the Olympics and then he’s homebound, even if it doesn’t feel like home anymore knowing that Marc isn’t going to be waiting for him at the airport with a dopey smile and probably a little sign emblazoned with “King Henrik”. And that’s exactly the type of thinking he knows he needs to stop because he, and he alone, fucked everything up, and he’s the one who has to deal with the consequential fallout like an adult.

The airport in Sochi has a multitude of little shops with kitschy things tourists love, mostly Matryoshka dolls and tiny bottles of Stoli, but there’s also a luxury jewelry store with a display of some of the most gaudy wedding rings and thick gold chains Hank’s ever seen. That’s about when he realizes what he’s going to do, what he _has_ to do.

He spends the next hour in an airport jeweler in Russia, obsessing over engagement bands and wondering despairingly which would show Marc just how serious he is and how idiotic he knows he is. Can a ring even convey that much though? Hank wonders idly, knowing that he’ll never find out if he never tries.

In the end, he chooses a white gold band encrusted with black and white diamonds in a slanted pattern that catch the light and keep it locked up instead of reflecting it. In a way, Hank feels it’s a perfect metaphor for how feels about Marc’s heart, except the part where he’d not quite managed to keep it wholly his and now regrets it with every fiber of his being, but still.

The flight back goes both too quickly and not quickly enough, Hank alternating between popping the lid on the little black box to just stare at the ring and sliding it from its notch to push onto his own finger. It looks good there, but Hank knows it will look even better on Marc, so he needs this to work, needs it like oxygen and the blood in his veins.

When the plane finally, blessedly, touches down, Hank all but sprints to the gate and runs smack into a tall guy in a lumpy wool, argyle sweater that’s clearly homemade. Because he’s so engrossed in his plan to win Marc back, it takes Hank far longer than it should to recognize the lanky ginger in front of him, but when he does, it’s like a bucket of ice water being dumped over his head.

“Hi, Jared,” Hank manages awkwardly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his travel wrinkled jeans before he does something dumb like tries to shake hands with a man he’s considered family for the better part of a decade.

The look Jared gives him is appraising and clearly meant to intimidate despite the 8 year age difference between them; the youngest Staal’s expression dares him to say something to defend himself, letting Hank know that Marc has told Jared everything.

Hank goes to open his mouth to say something, anything, but before he can speak a word, Jared raises a hand and says quietly, “Don’t try to explain, Hank. What you did was wrong, but I think we both know you know that, deep down.” And when had Jared ever sounded so cold, so callous?

Not knowing what to say to that or even why Jared is here, Hank can only think of one way to convey all the things he wants to, so he pulls the box from his sport coat pocket wordlessly and gives it to Jared.

The grim line marring Jared’s face morphs into a wry grin as Hank watches him closely for any sign of what he’s thinking. All in all, Hank figures that wasn’t the worst reaction the ring could’ve garnered.

“Well, maybe you aren’t as big of an idiot as I thought you were, Lundqvist. Come on,” Jared says as he follows the signs for the baggage claims. Hank has to actively lengthen his strides to keep pace with him, but he considers the fact that it means he’ll see Marc sooner, so he can’t really be bothered to mind.

When he and Jared get to baggage claim terminal E4, Marc’s standing there with Hank’s bag at his feet and a resolute expression glued to a face that looks sleep deprived and drawn. There are dark shadows under his hazel eyes, and his cheeks are just the slightest bit more angular than Hank remembers, like Marc hasn’t been eating properly.

Jared obviously notices how Hank’s gait slows, how his eyes roam Marc’s face noting how different he looks after only a few weeks apart which must be why he whispers viciously, “ _You_ did that to him, made him a hollow shell of the grumpy but lovable dork he is, so _you_ make it right." Jared’s hand on Hank’s elbow tightens brutally before he releases him and seemingly fades into the faceless mass of people meeting their loved ones.

Marc doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t give Hank any indication of what’s about to unfold, but the air around them feels charged and nearly crackles with energy just begging to be loosed.

Without warning, Marc’s pulling Hank to him and crushing his mouth to Hank’s in something too fierce and punishing to be called a kiss. It’s as if he pours everything he’s been feeling into that one moment because Hank can taste disappointment, anticipation, anger, and a million other things in it.

When Marc pulls away, it doesn’t feel permanent, like they’re on finite time in a clandestine universe where they just aren’t meant to work out despite their best efforts. Marc’s the perfect picture of calm and repose as he takes a sleek navy box from his sweatpants pocket and pushes it firmly into Hank’s hand, imploring him with only his eyes to obey, to just open it.

Hank’s stunned to find an engagement band, identical to the one he got for Marc save for the deep sapphires where the black diamonds are in Marc’s. He doesn’t know what kind of saint he must’ve been in a past life to deserve someone as perfect as Marc. In that instant, he wants to nothing more than to crawl inside Marc’s heart and make himself a home there for the rest of his God given life.

Rather than say anything and risk dissipating their borrowed bubble of refuge in baggage claim E4 at Thunder Bay International Airport, Hank pulls out the jeweler’s box and hands it to Marc with a brilliant smile that’s all teeth and blatant affection.

Marc answers the unvoiced question floating between them as he slips the ring on his left hand, letting it rest where his fourth finger meets his knuckle and once again presses their lips together.

“Henke, I love you, and it took a lot for you to own up to your almost mistake. I respect that, and I’ve thought and thought and nearly driven myself insane by imagining it and replaying it too many times over. I’m not saying you’re entirely forgiven, but I want you in my life and need you to know that.”

Hank places his ring in Marc’s palm and looks at him expectantly as he says, “You’re all I ever want, Marc. That was me letting my weakness overwhelm and nearly drown me, and it will never happen again, shouldn’t have even happened once. I love you so damn much.”

When Marc slides the ring on his finger, Hank feels everything inside of him shift and settle into its proper place, like the planets aligning, like the stars finally shining through the clouds, and he knows that maybe they’re not perfect, but they’re a hell of a lot better together than apart.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In case you put entirely too much thought into details (like I do), here's the ring Hank got for Marc. 
> 
> http://www.zales.com/mens-enhanced-black-white-diamond-slant-wedding-band-10k-white-gold/product.jsp?productId=11453246
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
